


Insomniac

by InkyKinky



Series: At Night in the Morning [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blurred, Fluff, M/M, Worries, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKinky/pseuds/InkyKinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean laid in his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He should sleep. He needed sleep. But he could not. If he had been a kid in those movies, he’d sit on the rooftop, or rode his bike to the nearest lake, sitting at the shore, musing while having a smoke. But he was no kid in a movie, so he sat at home alone at night and tried to stay somehow occupied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomniac

**Author's Note:**

> People wanted something like a sequel to Blurred but I actually couldn't think off anything, so I decided to write Jean's PoV (thanks to marras who -Thank God- came up with the idea)
> 
> Though it doesn't explain what happend later, I hope you can enjoy it and that you like it as much as Marco's PoV.  
> My [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_kinky) and [Tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) for art, updates, or whatever.
> 
> //Disclaimer: Jean doesn't suffer from real insomnia, okay, so please don't take this as Jean "getting healed by love", because this never works - healing requires hard work, which a loved one might support, but they can't solve the problem itself. Real insomnia is an illness that should be treated by a doctor, and definitely isn't self-induced in the way Jean does it. Thank you.

Jean laid in his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He should sleep. He needed sleep. But he could not.

He barely had slept in weeks, the nights filled with studying just to busy his mind, slamming every chemical formula he could find into his head, reasoning to himself that it was just for the graduation exams, while in truth it was something else. If he had been a kid in those movies, he’d sit on the rooftop, or rode his bike to the nearest lake, sitting at the shore, musing while having a smoke. But he was no kid in a movie, so he sat at home alone at night and tried to stay somehow occupied.

It resulted in a rapidly increasing consume of coffee, he was on edge, even Eren had figured out so much. He always felt the worried glances Marco shot him during Maths, but he couldn’t explain even him what was actually up with himself. _Maybe especially him._

He had started dreaming again, more intense than ever before, and it began creeping him out. He was scared of how he’d behave in school to his friend, his _best_ friend, what would happen if he didn’t catch himself once. Marco was nice but Jean definitely had strained their friendship way too often than that this could be played off easily.

He didn’t _want_ it to be played off easily.

He actually didn’t even know what he wanted exactly.

He shortly glanced at his alarm clock that switched its digits to 02:57.

Did he want Marco to love him back, or be even slightly attracted to him? _Maybe, maybe not._ If he didn’t want anything, he couldn’t start hoping. He knew that hoping became crucial at some point, that was what he had learned from his crush on Mikasa. But now they talked with each other, they were friends, and if Jean reconsidered it correctly, it was better that way. He did not know how much different it was to his crush on Marco. Mikasa deserved better, and Marco definitely did too. But the difference between the two were that Marco didn’t know, or at least didn’t want to believe it. Mikasa just looked for what she needed, what felt right.

Jean sighed. Marco was a giant idiot sometimes, with his stupid, _stupid_ jokes which still made Jean laugh.

But he didn’t hope. He didn’t want to.

Another glance. 03:04.

It was Saturday now, and all his homework was done. He even had made research for the November Revolution in 1917 and the events which lead to the wall fall in 1989. His History exam was in _June_. He chewed on his cheek.

03:11

He didn’t know if he was really tired. Maybe he was. Maybe he just didn’t want to be tired. He didn’t want to sleep, he could not sleep. Sometimes he wondered how strong his will could become.

A ring threw him out his train of thoughts. _The door bell._

 _It couldn’t be his parents, they’d come on Sunday, who the fuck was this it was in the middle of the night –_ not that he actually minded, though – _what could be so important to ring at this night time?_

He had never sprung so quickly out of bed and hasted to the flat door. _Maybe some drunk people who came at the wrong door._

‘Who _the fuck_ is there at _THREE IN THE MORNING?!’_ he bellowed into the intercom, more harshly than he actually wanted, but maybe it was his nerves, the sleep-deprivation, or whatever his mind actually lacked.

‘‘llo J-jshan, ‘s Marco ‘m sorry,’ a voice muttered back.

Jean’s eyes widened. _What did happen – was Marco drunk? – was he injured, did he lose his keys and didn’t want to ring at his home – though why should he ring Jean out of bed? –_

‘M-marco?’ Jean asked, genuinely worried, but still he couldn’t suppress a yawn. Maybe he _was_ tired in the end. ‘What are you _doin’_ here? It’s like, three in the mornin’, are you drunk?’

A pause.

‘Ye-yes,’ the voice at the other end of the intercom admitted.

‘Fucking lucky bastard that my parents are at Aunt Trudie’s. Now get your freckled sorry arse up here, you dork.’ He pressed the lock button to open the front door.

Jean didn’t really know how to handle this. He knew how the drunk Marco was, but usually they got shit-wasted together, if ever, and he knew how annoying it was being the only sober person in a round.

But this was Marco, if ever he became just really cuddly, sometimes talkative, but at the moment he just sounded tired and in need of sleep.

As he heard quick steps on the stair, Jean opened the flat door. It was cold outside, his naked limbs adorned a shiver of goosebumps, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Marco was drunk and needed his help.

He came into his sight, head lowered to concentrate on his steps until he reached Jean’s level. Big brown eyes flew up to his, the freckled face shooting a dorky grin to the blond.

‘H-hey,’ Marco greeted Jean, standing oddly close to him, only a hand-width apart. _He smelled sweetly, a bit like coconut_ , Jean registered before his heart made a jump.

Marco’s lips pressed wetly onto his, and Jean froze. _No – no no no, oh God no. He’s wasted, he couldn’t mean this serious, but this is how Marco Bodt tastes, how he feels like, oh please –_

Marco broke the kiss, eyes wide in shock, staring at Jean in panic, gasping.

‘‘m so sorry, ‘s all my fault, gosh ‘m too hamm’d for this, ‘m so sorry, Jean, I–’

‘You are fucking drunk, Bodt,’ Jean said in confusion, and it slipped off cooler than he wanted to. He could hear his heart pounding in his ribcage, he yearned for more, but no. No. He could not, Marco was goddamn drunk, he shouldn’t take adventage of his state, but oh God did he taste nice.

Everything went too fast, the brunet pressed his lips on Jean’s again, more urging, horribly inexperienced but so sweet and _addicting_ that Jean let his eyes slid close and answered the kiss. He wanted to feel Marco, every inch of him, wanted to dive his fingers through his soft hair, kissing him more, dragging him into his bedroom and _love him_.

He felt something wet on his cheeks, Marco’s breath hitched a little, sobbing silently. He was crying and Jean didn’t know why. He was crying and Jean started panicking.

They had left the corridor, Jean successfully had discarded him from his scarf and jacked, somehow he even had made Marco lose his shoes before they entered his room, and everything became a blur.

 _What did he do there? Wasn’t this raping Marco in first place? How much he ever wanted Marco to be there and wanting him, this was plainly wrong, wasn’t it?_ And Marco crying didn’t make it any better.

 _They just kissed_ , Jean told himself, _Marco could stop whenever he wanted, he didn’t need to do that. Not if he had to cry. Especially not when he had to cry._

They broke the kiss to catch a breath, and Jean wanted to be close, _so close_ as it was possible, but Marco whispered something into the silence against his lips.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Jean’s face faltered. He felt incredibly selfish in not _wanting_ him to be sorry. He didn’t want Marco to regret whatever this was, he didn’t want him to cry when he kissed Jean, just for once Jean dared to hope, and he wanted it to last for the moment. He pulled Marco down on his lap, kissed Marco’s soft neck, lingering in the scent he loved so much, never wanting to let go, a silent promise he wanted to keep.

‘No,’ he whispered back into the crook, ‘no, don’t. Don’t.’ Maybe, if he said often enough, he could convince either of them that this was good for them, that they needed it both. His hands slipped up Marco’s chest, almost on their own, unbuttoning this stupidly sexy shirt, his lips craving for soft freckled skin ever so more. ‘Don’t.’ He kissed away some of Marco’s tears pooling at his jawline. He wanted him to be happy, he wanted to _make him_ happy. ‘Don’t.’

 _But why was Marco sorry, why had he kissed him again, why did he cry, what was going on in his beautiful, beautiful head?_ Jean’s mind was racing, feverishly looking for an answer, it was wrong, plainly wrong, _I’m so sorry–_

‘N-no, don’ do that,’ the freckled boy in his lap sniffled, and Jean’s heart stood still for a second as Marco tried to shift away. He wanted him to stay, he wanted him to keep– ‘don’ do that for me.’

_For me._

‘I don’t,’ came faster from his lips than he had thought the sentence. _Dear Lord,_ if it was _that_ , if he thought it was a selfless act of _Jean_ – Jean cupped Marco’s head, searching for something in those beautiful brown eyes which were still dripping from tears, he wanted him to know that he _loved him_ , that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

‘I’ll stop if _you_ don’t want it.’ It was as good as any promise he could make. But it also left the question how long he could love Marco if he didn’t want this at all. _But he did want it, he did want it_ , Jean stubbornly repeated in his head.

‘Tell me ‘m wrong.’ Marco’s voice sounded tired, drained, maybe from the crying, maybe from the alcohol that still lasted on his lips, maybe from how late it actually was.

_He wasn’t wrong, he could not be wrong, and if he was, Jean was either._

‘No.’

Jean couldn’t lie to Marco, not now, not here.

‘I’m so sorry Jean,’ he sobbed, his eyes drained to the ground, filled with tears, and Jean didn’t know what to say, ‘please don’t hate me.’

 _Don’t hate me._ He couldn’t, even if he tried. Jean so desperately wanted this to end, he just wanted to hold him, telling him that everything was okay, that no damage was done, that he loved him, _oh he loved him how did Marco not understand_ –

‘I love you,’ Jean whispered, not knowing if it would make a change, but it was all he could do.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Marco’s breath hitched, and Jean wanted him to shut up, to never say these words again because Marco deserved so, _so_ much more.

‘I love you,’ Jean repeated against Marco’s lips before he kissed him softly, and he was sure to repeat it as often as he needed, until Marco stopped saying those hurtful words. ‘I love you.’ A kiss on his left cheek.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I love you.’ A tear on his right.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I love you.’ Until the face was covered with kisses, until he stopped crying, until everything was okay again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Marco whispered back.

‘I love you.’ Jean held him to his chest, steadying the usually so strong shoulders which now were sinking in more and more. Marco’s apologies grew weaker, fainting into the silence of the night, only broken by Jean’s promise to be there for him. His body was worn from all the tears shed, and he was still crying, though the tears were becoming less, and Jean loved him, he loved him, and he’d never grow tired to tell him so.

Marco’s breathing became steadier and calmer, and Jean listened to his heartbeat like it was the melody of life, thrumming in his ribcage, so very dear and alive and _there_. He held him for eternity to come, and at some point, Marco fell asleep, his face nuzzled into Jean’s crook, slowly growing heavier by minute.

Jean waited, listening to Marco’s peaceful slumber, and he felt how tired he actually had been all the time, but incredibly happy for the moment. The hot breath in his neck reminded him that this was real, and his heart was almost swelling from happiness, from luck, maybe, a very little bit of it was also pride, though he did not know of what.

Soon, Jean let himself sink backwards until he laid under Marco’s resting body, and rolled them over so they could sleep, side by side, sharing their body heat in a comfortable warmth.

It still took a while until Jean actually could fall asleep, constantly checking that Marco was still there, still lying next to him, that he was still soft asleep and didn’t start crying again without Jean to soothe his pain.

At some point, Jean’s eyes slipped close nonetheless, his limbs wrapped around the freckled boy next to him, promising to never let go.

 

It was warm and sunlit as he blinked. He didn’t know how late it was, but sure for January, the light was too bright, it almost felt like spring, and it made Jean smile happily. Then a body shifted next to him, tangling their limbs even more, and Jean remembered.

Marco was still vast asleep, and he looked so beautiful, so pretty, full at peace, with steady in- and exhales in which his chest expanded and deflated again, a small sigh escaping his lips every now and then, and Jean was happy.

Jean smiled as he softly kissed Marco’s temple.

‘I love you.’

He didn’t want this moment to end, it was too beautiful.

Jean traced small patterns on the freckled skin, it felt so soft, and he was still there, and this was not a dream. The other boy shifted again, snuggling closer into Jean’s embrace, his face pressed into Jean’s chest, hot breath against cotton.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marco muttered, still half asleep but without any tears daring to break through. This was a last one, maybe.

‘Don’t be,’ Jean replied, caressing Marco’s right cheek, smiling at the boy who blinked at him. They were so close, _so close_ , and Jean’s heart nearly combusted because he was so happy. A peaceful happy, but a happy nonetheless. Marco cocked his head slightly, and their lips slipped close, in a first kiss without tears, a first without worries.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to get some feedback! Comments, ConCrit, and Kudos appreciated as always, so please don't hit around the bush if you didn't like something/you see ways to improve.  
> Thanks again! :)


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